


oh yeah, i'm a reaper man (every good thing, i kill it dead)

by cashtastrophe



Series: goddamn, we missed the vein [4]
Category: Underfell - Fandom, Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Underfell, Bondage, Choking, Collars, Jealous Papyrus, M/M, Papyrus Has Issues, Sibling Incest, Underfell Papyrus, Underfell Sans, W. D. Gaster Being An Asshole, gaster has a creepy relationship with papyrus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 16:36:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7648450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cashtastrophe/pseuds/cashtastrophe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Papyrus is nothing like his father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	oh yeah, i'm a reaper man (every good thing, i kill it dead)

**Author's Note:**

> so i just found out i've got to be moving in two weeks and logically, this is what i do instead of packing. hahahahahahahahahahahaha ~~kill me~~
> 
> this is just a gross, gross short one-shot i had to get out of my brain. this is a messed up family. please heed the warnings (additional warnings in the end notes)

[now]  
  
  
“Look at yourself,” his brother purrs into the side of his skull, slick as steel and just as sharp. One big hand, so carefully folded to fit between sans's bare ribs, wraps tight around the frantic rabbit-pulse of his soul.  
  
sans lets out this strangled kind of wheeze, tries to pull away as claws scrape along the swollen pull of its surface. A faint, uneven pink glow flickers to life against the dusty curve of his spine.  
  
“aw, _fuck_ ,” he huffs and earns himself a sharp tug on the leash for his troubles. The leather snaps tight around the vertebrae. He grunts as it jerks him sharp back against his brother's sternum. The claws curled around his soul squeeze _just_ enough to wring another wretched sound out of him.  
  
He doesn't—he doesn't _want_ to look at himself in the cracked mirror hung on Papyrus's bedroom door. He can picture it well enough—huddled in the v of Papyrus's stupid-long legs, red-faced, shivering , still fully-dressed save for the unzipped jacket and the shirt rucked up somewhere around his collarbones, eyelights blown wide as he squirms in his brother's lap and makes this awful little noise he'll conveniently delete from this memory later.  
  
Wishes he could rid himself of the whole fuckin' thing, but hey. He settles for screwing his eyes shut and twisting his face away instead, burying it best he can in the filthy fur trim of his jacket hood. It smells like cheap beer and cheaper weed, but it's soft and dark and so much better than having to meet his brother's burning eyelights over his own shoulder.  
  
“Look,” Papyrus hisses and pulls on the leash again. He holds it this time, pulls it tight and punishing and it doesn't make sense—no lungs, right?—but sans chokes on it anyways, scrabbles madly at his own throat until Papyrus eases up just enough to allow him shallow, shuddering breath.  
  
“thank you,” sans gasps.  
  
He knows the script.  
  
“Open your eyes, _brother_.”  
  
The way he says that word used to gut sans, it really did. Back when he had even a glimmer of hope that quiet and compliance would at all protect him, he'd actually flinched at it.  
  
He knew he wasn't what they'd been expecting, either of them, this fragile, half-crippled _thing_ that required as much protection as he offered. He knew that Papyrus had been displeased, initially, to be presented with such a substandard toy.  
  
The moniker had stuck, though—it was even necessary, to explain away the sudden appearance of an additional child, a half-brother Papyrus hadn't known about until his mother's untimely passing. It served as a reminder that their relationship was involuntary. That he would never have chosen sans, had he actually been given a choice.  
  
It's fair. He gets it.  
  
Now, though, _now_ that word thrills something low in his stomach, immediately followed by a wash of shame, and twisting nausea. Which should dissipate that heat entirely, right, should leave him cold and frightened and curled up into himself, but it only makes it _worse_ somehow. The way Papyrus spits his name makes him positively sick, sluggish and stupid with arousal.  
  
( _You like it_ , Papyrus accuses him once, shakily, like he doesn't already know the answer. sans doesn't even have to think about it, just breathes an emphatic _yeah_ into the smooth arc of his little brother's pubic crest. Follows it with his tongue. Keens when Papyrus's shin nudges up against his own pelvis far too hard to be accidental.  
  
_Good_ , Papyrus hisses.)  
  
He'll get off now and he'll _hate_ himself later for it. This is routine by this point, this is—this is fucking clockwork, because his brother has exactly zero appreciation for spontaneity.  
  
It's exactly the same, every single night. Papyrus drops off into sleep for his few short hours. sans stares blank at the facing wall until his eye sockets itch with exhaustion, his brain stuck in this smooth vinyl groove of _he's your brother he's your brother, he's your brother_ on constant repeat.  
  
He doesn't follow the order. He screws his eyes shut and grits his teeth instead. In an attempt to distract himself, he mentally tallies his new injuries, cataloging which ones might require first aid later.  
  
He's barely gotten to twelve when Papyrus clocks that sans has no intention of complying, and lets go of his soul. He pushes a rib aside dragging that big paw out of sans's chest—not quite enough to crack the thing, but certainly enough to wring a low, heated grunt from between sans's teeth. He can _feel_ Papyrus smile against the notches of his upper cervical spine. Sharp teeth graze the vertebrae. He shivers.  
  
Almost lazily, Papyrus drops his free hand down to the warm cotton of sans's sweatpants. He slides a heavy palm over the ridge of sans's pubis, giving a near-affectionate yank to the leash when sans bucks up into the pressure with a strangled “aw, _shit_ , Pap, hey—”  
  
“None of that,” Papyrus rumbles, cool as a goddamn cucumber, and thumbs at the sensitive spot in the center of the bone. sans can already feel his stuttering magic pooling there, warmwet, like its trying to accommodate the ragged way his soul is beating against the inside of his ribs, the way he's twisting up to meet his brother's touch even while it's prickling imagined bile at the back of his throat.  
  
His body understands what's happening here. He only wishes his stupid mind would do him the same favor.  
  
“Come on. What's my name?” It's thick and slurred and very nearly sweet, a cruel counterpoint to the way he's slowly strangling sans, the way his claws curl around and bite into the bone, too hard to be anything but painful.  
  
And _yet_.  
  
This is the worst thing about sans. This is the absolute pinnacle of everything shitty and wrong and wretched about his entire existence, the way he whimpers, low and pained, like a fuckin' animal but still he hitches up into those bruising fingers. Still, he hisses through his teeth “ _please_ ,” and shudders when heavy fangs graze across the ridge of his scapula.  
  
He can't blame Papyrus when he literally begs for it, right? That's completely unfair. He's the older brother, after all, he's meant to be responsible and still, he lets this happen. He indulges this black part of his brother's personality out of nothing more than his own disgusting self-interest.  
  
Papyrus doesn't deserve this.  
  
When he finally opens his eyes. the spiderweb-cracked surface of the mirror on the door fractures him into Picasso jigsaw pieces—wicked teeth nudge up against the bruise ringing his left orbital bone, the trickle of blood trailing from his nasal cavity cut in two by the reddened line of his flushed cheekbones.  
  
It makes him nauseous to look at. He squeezes his sockets closed again and grits out “ _Papyrus.”_  
  
“No,” Papyrus corrects softly. He sounds very nearly amused. “Try again.”  
  
Papyrus isn't hard. He rarely is, when they do this, and that's...shit, that's somehow so much worse, isn't it, because at least that would make some kind of sense. At least that, he could understand. Those nights that he won't even let sans touch him though, those nights he spends close to an hour weaving complicated bindings of black silk through the spaces between his grimy armbones for no apparent reason other than the fact that he seems to enjoy sans squirming in what they both know is futile effort to free himself...  
  
Sans doesn't get It.  
  
They don't fuck, really. Not—well, okay, maybe that awful, fumbling first time, and three subsequent rounds in the following week, because Papyrus was sixteen and _eager_ was probably too mild a word to describe him. But it's been what, nearly eight years now? He can still count on his fingerbones the amount of times it had happened since.  
  
He mostly gets Papyrus off and Papyrus gets him off sometimes, when he's in a particularly cruel mood. It's entirely seperate, except for the way it all bleeds into one hot, hazy memory in his brain, the way it all curdles his stomach, makes his joints ache.  
  
“I'm not _him_ ,” Papyrus snarls the single time he works up the courage to stammer out something along the lines of _why don't you—?_ through a thick mouthful of his own blood. “I'm—oh fuck you, I'm _not_ — “  
  
He doesn't finish the sentence, but he does slam sans's skull into the headboard.  
  
Sans yelps. Papyrus sneers at him and snaps his clavicle neatly in two, eyelights blown wide and nearly white with rage. “I'm _nothing like him_ ,” he seethes and sans can barely see past the bright flickers of pain across his entire field of vision, but he nods frantically anyways.  
  
It's the very first time be locks sans in the shed overnight. The clavicle heals wrong, always canting just a few degrees too north.  
  
sans doesnt ask again.  
  
  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
  
[before]  
  
  
“Watch,” Gaster said.  
  
sans howled, pulled desperate at the thick leather cuffs because no, no, _fuck_ him, this wasn't fair!  
  
He promised, _if you're good_ he'd said and _he never needs to know_ he'd said. sans had been good, he had been so good, but Gaster lied, he fucking _lied—_  
  
Papyrus hadn't even blinked when he'd pushed the basement door open and found his pseudo-brother collared, half-undressed and strapped down to the cruel steel operating table. He hadn't protested, hadn't asked why, hadn't seemed fazed in the goddamn slightest.  
  
He'd only cocked his head and taken a tentative few steps closer, like he wasn't quite sure he was allowed to approach.  
  
Papyrus's eyelights were barely pinpricks in their sockets as he watched Gaster's hollow hands undo the knotted drawstring of sans's sweatpants and ease them down over his pelvis. He didn't say a word. He didn't move. Didn't even breathe, it looked like.  
  
_Please don't_ died on sans's tongue before the words even made it past his teeth. Gaster wouldn't listen to it—sans may as well have been speaking French, for all his not-father appeared to understand the concept of _stop_.  
  
sans wondered dimly, as those cold, cracked fingers nudged his knees apart, if Papyrus would be any different.  
  
A small hand—dull claws, he hadn't had to file them down yet, he was practically still in stripes so _what the fuck was he doing here_ —wrapped around his ankle. Squeezed just too hard to be comforting.  
  
Apple doesn't fall far, right?  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> papyrus is absolutely like his father, papyrus does impressive mental gymnastics to absolve himself of wrongdoing, noncon/dubcon, violence, broken bones, bondage, choking, vague references to Gaster getting p inappropriate with sans in full view of underage pap (although nothing really happens to pap),


End file.
